Dappled Shadows
by dreams.of.destiny
Summary: Drabblefic. There is something about the two of them that cannot be denied. Something that only the leaves of the trees are privy to. Something...more. A collection of canon stand-alone oneshots. Jack/Simon
1. This Side of Paradise

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_Dappled Shadows_

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a stand-alone oneshot archive

{by dreamsof_destiny_}

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( I : This Side Of Paradise )

Simon sighed, resting on the ground. His bare back was touching the cool dirt, and the ants crawling around were more comforting than they should have been. Of course, it wasn't as if he was hiding, or even running. He was just...resting. There was nothing wrong with doing that, of course. Finding solace in the fact that the leaves in the trees provided enough shade so that the noontime sun just barely touched his skin, he relaxed his muscles.

Here, nothing would come.

A teacher had once said that all people naturally clung to one another and thirsted for company. He did not know whether she was lying, or if he was not like "all people", for Simon always found it easier alone. With only the hurrying ants as company and the rustle of leaves as sound, he felt...at peace. Here, no one was imposing rigid rules, or insane guidelines to follow. Perhaps that was one of the better points of being stranded out here, without a hint of society at all.

Perhaps it was the gentle breeze, slightly warm yet cool at the same time.

Perhaps it was the lulling hum of the silence and the leaves.

Perhaps it was the sun and the trees and the grounds and ants all-together.

But whatever the reason, Simon found his eyelids growing heavy, despite the more-than-sufficient sleep he had gotten last night. And although it was not a sudden faint like he was prone to having, it was still the ever-accustomed unwanted unconsciousness. There was heat, and black-and sleep. And then, there was nothing else, and he felt sleep overwhelm him.

Maybe it's been a minute, or even an hour. Time can't be measured by anything except days here. And even days are forgotten at that. But all that goes to pass when Jack steps into the small tumble of dirt and weeds in which Simon rest upon. There is a crackle of leaves, because he is still human, still has mass, will still make noise. His face is still painted with deep reds of clay, and his eyes are no kinder than they've been from the first day.

He'd look surprised; might even have gasped if the mask were not in place.

Instead, he walked forward, calmly, slowly. He refused to hold his breathe, and refused to give a sigh of relief at seeing the other boy's chest rise and fall in motion with the leaves.

Jack does not know why he doesn't wake Simon up. Or perhaps leave him to die. After all, he bears no good fortune for the boy, and he's all too weak for his own good. Maybe death would be the right way to go. However, what really matters is that he does nothing of the sort, and the wild pig he was chasing is all but forgotten.

The other boy looks ridiculously peaceful, as if there was nothing wrong about catching an afternoon nap in the middle of a forest on an island without people. But then again, what does Jack know about the "right" and the "wrong"? Jack sits down, crosslegged, next to Simon. He thinks it rather strange that the ants crawl around the slumbering boy, and yet never go to touch him. But then again, they do the same for him as well.

And then one second he's watching the pale flush of the other's cheeks, and the next, Simon's eyes are wide as saucers and he can see the blue of his eyes. It happens too fast for his mind to register, and the smaller boys arms are around his neck, hugging as if Jack's a savior, or something of the sort. Jack feels a warmth in his cheeks, and would have moved to get Simon off of him if-

"It's inside." Simon says. His voice is dreadfully clear, and yet it quakes all the same, "It's here."

He lifts his head, and looks straight at Jack.

"We can't be saved."

As quickly as the whole thing began, it quiets down once more. Jack feels the tight grip of the other's arms around his neck loosen. He feels Simon's slightly mussy black hair between his chin and his shoulder. The words the other boy has said still ring clearly in his ears. He knows it's crazy, maybe a nightmare at most, but he can't help the shiver that slides down his spine.

Even back at England, Simon has always been able to see something. Something more. It is both a gift and a curse, he knows best of all, to have abilities that no one else has, and all of a sudden, Jack feels his arms unwittingly looping around Simon. It's stupid to do this when there are pigs to kill and leaders to unhenge and heck, fires to burn. It's stupid, stupid, stupid.

But all the same, Jack can stop the words coming out of his mouth no more than he can stop the beating of his heart.

"I will save you." He says. And he repeats it, just in case...in case...?

"I will save you."

And maybe it is the gently blowing wind. Or maybe it's the sun and the trees and the ground and ants. Or maybe, it's the fact that even if Simon is asleep and loony, he can still hear those words. He smiles, mysteriously, shyly, and a million other illustrious things that makes him Simon. Jack does not see this, nor does he ever need to. After all.

It is a lie and everything will soon be a lie.

Nonetheless, it is comforting to be lied to.

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	2. Green With Envy

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_Dappled Shadows_

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( II : Green With Envy )

The eerie quiet of the forest was cut sharply through with the patter of feet and terrified squeals. Into the clearing burst a boy with blazing red hair, face red and heart pounding after yet another unsuccessful chase with a wild pig. Oh, how he wanted meat.

But that wasn't the only thing irking him right now, he recalled. It was rather late in the afternoon, and he honestly felt as if the heat of the fire would be preferable to the not-quite-blazing sun.

Simon had fainted today.

It was rather sudden, as all faints were. They had just finished exploring, and were now distributing the food and water rations. Maybe it was the blazingly hot sunlight, and maybe it was something else entirely, but Jack felt he was partially responsible. Of course, that just led to him lashing out twice as hard at anyone who dared approach him, and even Roger decided to back off for the time being.

Oh how he hated this godforsaken place.

Back at England, at their school-in choir, he had been the only person Simon would have so much as a conversation with. But here on the island, there were other people, and for the first time in a long time, Jack was actually refused something he wanted.

Sure, the thing that he wanted was rathe simple, if not stupid. He just wanted to be the one to carry his underling back to the safety of the huts. Nothing particularly selfish or wanton, right? At least, he had thought so. But then Ralph had said he was leader and used those stupid privileges (however few they were) to get to be the one that carried Simon back to the camps.

And here he was, sitting in the middle of a forest on a stupid island.

It was all Ralph's fault. If someone hadn't been so set on having Simon go adventuring (or was it himself? he ignored the thought...), then the boy would have never dropped into a dead faint in the middle of the fruit trees, and the whole problem would have never occurred.

Jack punched the trunk of a nearby tree. Not like he had anything against the tree of course. But it was there, and the object that he did want to punch wasn't. If he wasn't British (civilized, they say...), he would have growled, maybe even howled like a mindless beast. For now though, he contented himself to plaster a scowl over his face and hiss out swear words at any particular point of agitation.

Which, sadly, was the whole time right now.

Stupid Simon. Fainting in a stupid daze in the middle of a stupid island. And then Stupid Ralph, to have actually picked up the stupid boy. They were without adults, for crying out loud! They could be anything that they wanted, and instead, they were forced to build huts and light fires? Jack scowled-it was all really stupid. And what made it even more stupid was that Simon let Ralph carry him back to the pathetic huts.

Ralph. A random stranger on a random island who sure as hell wasn't part of their choir group. A person that Simon had only met less than a day ago, he trusted now more than anyone. And that made Jack mad. After all, he was the one who was stuck babysitting the boy whenever the choirmaster told him to do so. He was the one that talked to Simon. Scolded him, yes, but at least there was conversation!

And then there was Ralph. And Simon. And the other boys had been jeering and laughing at the two of them, but Ralph paid no heed to their immaturities. Jack hated that. He hated them. They were all stupid. In fact, they could all go burn in hell.

If Simon had let Jack carry him, he knew the little choir boys wouldn't have dared make fun of it. But since Simon didn't, Jack felt it was all the better that the other boy was being ridiculed. It was fitting punishment, after all.

A rustle of leaves.

Jack whirled around in a silent rage. Briefly, he thought how weak people must be, in order to display their emotions so vividly on their facial features. It was a weakness and he'd do well to cover it up later.

It was Simon. The other boy was as pale as usual, and the black hair that tousled around his head looked a bit damp with sweat. His eyes, however, were as clear-blue as always, and it was only with those that Jack could be certain that the other boy was well enough to stand. He had an indiscernable expression, as he always did, and Jack realized that maybe Simon would be the only person that couldn't have expressions as a weakness. Jack ran his tongue over the edge of the upper lip, before being the first to cut the silence, as he always did.

"What do you want?" Would a mask be able to hide the rage in his voice as well?

"Jack, you're mad." The younger boy always said things in a way like he was describing the weather. As stupid as it all was, Jack found himself calming down already. Maybe it was just the way Simon had an influence on people.

"Of course I'm mad." He responded. Simon stepped closer. Normally, it would be a wary step, but this time, it was as if he were in full control of the situation. Jack stared mutedly as the smaller boy knelt down to his level, near the tree trunk. Slowly, Simon moved so that his face was inches away from Jack's, and the other's breathes, light as feathers, could be felt prickling his skin. Frighteningly blue eyes looked straight in his, asking the obvious question:

"Why are you mad?"

And here, Jack was only completely at loss for words. Why was he mad? Was it because Simon had fainted? He had fainted so many times that it wasn't even funny. Why was it this time that he was so mad? Was it because Simon hadn't let Jack carry him? Was it because Ralph had carried Simon instead of Jack? Yes. That was it. But why was he mad? If Roger had done the same, he wouldn't have...

"Don't faint again. It causes trouble for everyone," Jack said instead of the chaos of thoughts in his head. He wanted to roughly push Simon away, but only managed to get his hands on the place where the shoulder and the chest joined. Simon's hands slowly drew over Jack's. That was not a flush in his cheeks that he was feeling. And he was not embarrassed to the point of being unable to look the other in the eye.

"I'm sorry." Simon apologized. It was quiet, like the boy, and it was sincere, like he was too. Jack sighed, it was always a losing battle. Simon released his not-hold on Jack's hands, getting up and going back towards the huts. Jack continued to stay there.

For the life of him, he did not know which crime Simon was apologizing for.

But he forgave him nonetheless.

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	3. Of A Lightness

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_Dappled Shadows_

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( III : Of A Lightness )

Back in Britain, there was a big commotion going around about blood. Well, actually genes. Jack clearly remembered his teachers avidly talking about the subject; something along the lines of "you-gee-nics". The belief that all people had different types of blood, and different types on inherent abilities.

He sneered, wiping a bit of red from his cheek. If only they were stranded here on this island, they'd understand the truth. Yes, people were all given different abilities from birth. That much, no one should have been able to argue with. But in the end, blood was blood. Was blood. And it was the same blood that covered the ground in the war, the same blood that fell from the pig, and the same blood that covered his body.

The rags that accounted for his attire were now stained. But Jack didn't mind-the stench of blood was _soothing_. Strangely so, actually, but soothing nonetheless.

A chase. A squeal from a pig. The rush of adrenaline flowing through his veins. And then the white butterfly that was success-slipping from his grasp. There was a tree, there was a pig, and now...? Now, there was blood. Blood on him, blood on the ground, and blood from him. The other hunters had crowded around him, asking if he wanted their help, asking if he wanted them to do anything.

Jack growled at the thought of those whimpering fools. What he really wanted was for them all to go away.

He hated this, really, truly hated this.

There was a slash, whether from the branches of the tree or the tusks of the pig, he would never know. But it was from the slash in which his blood was dripping out of. The grass beneath his feet was already stained red, and he wondered, vaguely, how much blood was there in a human body.

Heaven seemed rather far away, but Mother did always say that it was to keep out those who weren't worthy.

A chuckle, then a ragged gasp. He must surely be going mad. All too quickly, the sharp blade of grass cut into his bare back, and he wanted to wince at the wound that was being prodded. But doing that would mean he had to move-and he was too tired for that. Far, far too tired. He closed his eyes; just for a rest.

It was then that Simon's small form emerged from the trees. He had heard the hunters' shrieks. Something about a huge pig, one that had felled Jack. It was natural for his choir head to not accept help from others, but it did lead to the others cleaning up his mess. Simon stared solemnly at the other boy. Blood painted his body, and made him look like an ethereal being. He kneeled down, lightly placed a hand over the other's chest.

Simon released a breathe when the beating of a heart was felt-ever steady, ever strong.

Wasting no time, he pulled off his shirt, and ripped a long piece of cloth from the fabric with great difficulty. He was not made for physical work, but then again, neither was Jack. Gingerly, he wound the bandage across the older boy's chest, using an arm to keep his upper back from touching the grass. For the first time, Simon was aware of the drastic difference in their body temperatures. Where Jack was burning, like the flame of his spirit, Simon felt icy-but dry in comparison.

Jack was clearly larger than him, as proved when the fabric that could have easily covered Simon's waist only served to wrap itself around Jack three times. Simon pulled tightly on the knot, so as to secure it, and watched as the blood stilled to small drops.

A shiver ran down his spine as he realized his own hands were now coated red.

"...Simon...?" Jack whispered with a dry voice. He hoped that he was not seeing things, as the loss of blood was making his head feel light. The light that bled through the trees gathered around the younger boy's head, making him look like an angel. It wasn't until the light laughter fell upon Jack's ears did he realize that he had voiced his opinions aloud. The heat rose to his face, but Simon didn't point that out.

It was just one of the many reasons why Jack didn't mind Simon helping him out. But the gears in his mind were working slower than usual, and the other boy was simply begging the question.

"Why do you always do this?"

There is no immediate answer, and Jack has to strain his ears to hear the one that Simon gives.

"Because you deserve it."

The way Simon says it just makes it all make sense. If it were anyone else, Jack would've snapped at them. Would have told them to stop pitying him, to go away. Would have called them pathetic, and then called himself pathetic when they left. But it was Simon, and being with Simon made him wonder about the theory of blood. He'd never seen the other boy bleed; and he wonders if it'd be golden, like the light around his head.

Jack says a thank-you, one that he'll never say again. Later, he can blame the blood loss for the lightness of his head-the lightness that he feels when Simon smiles, shyly, like always.

For the first time since they've met here, Simon stays. Their hands are not touching, and it's really more like calmly watching, but Jack is satisfied.

There is a voice-in his head, telling that this will not last. Telling him that he does not deserve any of this, and soon, they will never have this place anymore. There is a quieter voice, one that's been buried for ages, that wants to see Simon bleed-wants to be the one to make Simon bleed. There is a part of him that really needs to know whether or not the other boy's blood is red (like everyone), or some color that it like the light that surrounds him.

Jack ignores it, for Simon is here, is here with him.

For now, that is all he needs.

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	4. To Your Heart's Content

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_Dappled Shadows_

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( IV : To Your Heart's Content )

Brash and brutal; outspoken and detemined; confident and capable. These were the words that came to mind when Simon thought of Jack. Though even in England, when they were both in the choir, he had seen the darker side to the school's brilliant and well-bound leader, he had felt neither fear nor repulsion to the older boy's fundamental illness.

Of course, back then, Jack was not the 'problem' - in fact, 'nature' wasn't even the problem. The problem was old Mr. Sutters, with his beady eyes and sweating palms; he was the teacher that was always reaching, reaching, reaching. Simon saw, he heard, and he did not do anything. At night, he had laid awake, wondered why he did not act, wondered if he was destined for hell because of this.

And then it became clear, all so clear.

He had always been reserved, had always stayed clear of company and stretching, wandering, weaving hands. Had tried, at least. And it was no different now; he simply retreated further into the corners of his consciousness, refusing to look, much less make eye contact, with whichever fellow choir-member attempted to chat up with him.

It was Jack that didn't ask 'what's wrong?' and it was Jack who staged the untimely retirement of the old Mr. Sutters. Simon does not hear of any of this until after the incident, after Jack is smiling and laughing and pushing him against the wall, forcing his to drink a whole cup of the foul red liquid that he had known to be blood.

'Don't look so bloody miserable all the time,' Jack had said, ruffling his hair before continuing down the hall, as if he did not just practice something that would have earned even the highest Knight a hanging.

Simon had not been _grateful_, persay, but he hadn't done anything against it either.

"You're pale," Jack notes, feeling Simon's forehead with the back of his hand. Simon feels groggy, reaches out, and sees that he is positioned half-leaning against one of the taller trees. Jack mutters something about the 'damned heat' and 'forsaken mosquitoes' before retracting his hand. Something sticky, but instead of opening his eyes, he instinctively feels for his forehead.

Simon does not need to put it near his nose to know the substance to be blood.

Ever so slowly, he cracks open his eyes, only to see a look of pure panic flash across Jack's blood-and-mud smeared face (_and did the forest always look so green and gold?_) before he cannot open his eyes at all.

"Jack...?" He whispers, more for reassurance than anything else.

"Don't look," the other replies. A pause, a beat, and Simon would will himself to relax, except he is already at ease. "Don't look," Jack repeats, with something more-like-fervor this time. Simon's lashes, thick and unfit for the ordinary farmboy, flutter behind the head boy's outstretched palm. "I don't want you to see me like this," Jack confesses.

"I won't," Simon promises - the best that he can, anyways.

He can feel Jack leaning closer, can feel it when the other's fingers tighten just that _bit_ about his head. He cannot move and he is frozen to the spot, and he can taste the blood (_once of a mouse, then of a pig, later-?_), disgusting and retching and addicting all at once. It ends, much like that one moment in school, and it is all Simon can do not reach out.

Jack only releases his hold once he is sure Simon will make no move to open his eyes.

"Why did you protect me?" Simon asks, though he already knows.

It comes, the vision. A fire, a huge fire. The whole troop of boys living in the deserted pile of rocks, the makeshift cave; and the holler of savages and scoundrels, runaways from the law, as opposed to civilized school-boys. He hears Jack speaking, saying something, but he cannot catch anything over the roar of the waves and the trees which are falling, _toppling_ - dying - because of the flames. And throughout the whole of the experience, there is one thing he notices immediately.

He does not see himself there.

Simon is down on the ground, knees and hands, gasping and coughing and choking on air, sweet air. His eyes are still tightly shut, and he's heaving, panting, chest rising and falling and finger twitching. Jack reaches forth a hand, and Simon knocks it away, instinctively, with a force neither of them knew him to possess.

The reaction is immediate: Jack seizes both of his hands, manages to pull a near-hysterical boy out of a vision-induced insanity, and through it all, Simon's eyes remain clenched tight.

Like all other attacks, this one subsides as well, eventually.

"Golly," Jack breathes out, ruffling Simon's hair in what would be an affectionate manner, if his hand weren't firmly placed about the younger one's throat. "I almost thought I smelled rebellion, you know?" And there's a pitch to his voice that makes it a little higher, a little bit more forced, than before. Simon's eyes stay closed. "But you wouldn't do that, right? You're a good boy, Simon; not like all those other _wankers_," Jack spits out, a sneer upon his lips.

He tastes the coppery tange of blood, and realizes - with dawning horror - that he is beginning to _like_ it.

And like that, Jack's mood and manner changes completely once more. "Good Simon, the fairest choir-boy of them all," he commends, voice rich and sweet, and just that little bit of deep. "You'll let me keep you, right? All to myself..."

The laugh that echoes through the blowing leaves is not one that Simon knows.

(_He sees the branches falling, he sees the island burning; he sees all of life being extinguished by the flame._)

"What do you want?" Jack asks, painting a perfect 'J' in-blood on Simon's cheek. His face is strangely devoid of the dirt and wear which has become clothing for all the other stranded boys.

"I want to sing _Ave Maria_ in front of the Harcourt crowd," Simon professed.

"Your voice will never be deep enough, you know?" And Jack laughs, clear - and wild, just as he should, "When we go back to England, I'll request that you get to go to the Harcourt Manor, and then you'll be able to sing to them 'till your heart gives out." And he sighs, softly, wondering why Simon still smells of church and flowers and _soap_, even when he's just been painted with pig's blood. No matter; they live now, and he wraps his arms about the younger boy.

Simon does not open his eyes.

'I'm scared,' Simon wants to disclose, wants to say that he knows he'll enver be able to hit that 'G' of Ave Maria, but that he does not need to anymore, because this island will serve as his grave. 'I'm scared of dying, of watching the island go up in flames, and of everyone turning into monsters,' Simon thinks, because he cannot say. 'I want to go home and sing a song - any song, so long as I can stand by your side and-'

He doesn't finish that thought-cannot finish that thought.

Old gray hands make their way about his throat, only that is a thought of the past, and Jack is still holding him close.

'We'll be off this island soon,' he hears Jack whisper into the messy black strands of loose hair.

It will never be soon enough.

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Er, yeah. I'm a sucker for nice people who sweetly ask/suggest, so Happy Valentines' Day to you, Canadino (did I spell that right-?) and I hope you enjoy! It's not that I'm not still _totally in love_ with the idea of JackxSimon, simply that I'm random like that, and when I write, I write.


	5. Closer Than You Think

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_Dappled Shadows_

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( V : Closer Than You Think )

It is with no thought that Simon raises the spear and takes the first stab. The action feels foreign; he feels as if he's watching another one of those motion pictures, the ones where the characters live in a world without color and sound. His fingers feel the crudely-made spear, tightly clutched between his fingers. His nose smells the blood, thick and red and coppery; all too close to him.

And all the same, he- Simon, the boy- does not see or smell any of it.

What he does feel is the buzzing of the forest around him.

His fingers are not trembling; they were not trembling when he took the first stab, and they are still not trembling, even as they go through the motions of the third, fourth, and fifth drive in. It is without the fervor of the hunters that he takes his first kill. Simon's eyes are open, concentrated on the pig, clear of their normal glazed overtone. It is without any sort of emotion that he finds the desperately throbbing heart of the boar with the edge of his spear.

Selfishly, he closes his eyes to save himself when he feels the heart of the boar beat no more.

"It was really easy," he says, more to the Lord of the Flies than himself. He has learned, in both church and choir, that the devil is always listening (even if God is not), so he relishes in the attention he is getting right now.

Sanguine red coat his arms, splatters and hugs itself about his elbows, and he stares at the twitching pig, bemused for no apparent reason.

It is in this moody state that Jack discovers him. The irony is thick; for the first time in their meetings in the clearing, it is Simon that is coated in blood and tears and death, and Jack that looks laughably clean- almost _English_, if those trousers were not barely hanging to his lithe body. Simon looks at the other boy, and laughs.

It shouldn't send shivers down his spine, to hear the youngest member of his choir laugh (as if possessed), but it does. And they are pleasant, traitorous shivers, his mind chooses to remind him.

"How did you..." Jack begins, only to find his throat completely dry and his mind equally blank. He licks his lips; no matter, he can start over, "How did you manage to find that pig?" It's as close to 'normal' as he can get, namely because Simon is _clearly_ battier than normal today. Jack knows that he shouldn't think the younger boy looks so delicious drowned to the knees in red- he just _does_.

"It was really easy," Simon plaintively repeats, smiling sweetly at Jack, "If I just sit here, the animals come close; they smell the fruit and the flies, you see?" The pigs gives a final, unearthly twitch, before begoming stationary. Flies are slowly swarming, and Jack cannot help but notice how they seem to be drawn towards Simon, as opposed to the rotting pig's carcass.

"You're not supposed to..." Jack begins, but he does not know what he was supposed to say. 'This' was not supposed to have happened. 'He' was not supposed to run about like a common country bumpkin, killing whatever he pleased and saying whatever he thought. 'They' were not supposed to be able to see blood, much less make it flow.

"Whyever not?" Simon asks, calm and rational; a stark contrast to the bubbling, clashing waves of hysteria and euphoria in Jack.

(He looks so beautiful; He's driving you mad; He looks so good in red; He'll be coated in _your_ blood soon.)

"Who gave you the spear?" Jack asks instead, not wanting to finish his previous question, nor wanting to answer Simon's own question.

"Roger."

"That bloody-" Jack starts, only to be interrupted, of all things, by Simon.

"What's wrong with that?" The voice is unnervingly calm; it's still disarmingly _Simon_, which makes Jack all the less able to comprehend the situation, "You all look so... happy... when you're hunting. I wanted to feel it, just a little," And then he trails off, training his gaze from Jack to the pig, and back again.

"Well?" Jack questions, demanding, "Are you... happy? Did killing the boar make you better?"

Simon does not reply, only laughs, high-pitched and shakey and not-at-all alright.

It is without hesitation that Jack walks up to the younger boy (the one the teachers had always told him to 'take care of') and socks him cleanly across the face.

Eyes wide and face smeared with a quickly-reddening bruise, Simon looks more shocked than hurt.

"Don't confuse our infantile intoxications with happiness," Jack spits out, more angry than he'd like himself to be. He needs to be more in-control, he needs to notice less of Simon, he needs to- "And _don't_ go around slaughtering animals for the sake of some delusion of 'happiness'." He sneers, and he can already see the mirror image of himself: disgusting, "Out of all the choirboys, I thought that you would know the difference between necessity and murder."

"You're raising me on a pedestal that I cannot get off from," Simon says, without any malice, refusing to make eye contact at all.

Jack looks as if he had been punched back.

"I may experience the world differently from the rest of the choir, but that hardly means that I know the weight of a life," Simon continues, gaze still focusing of the swollen, bleeding pig, "Is it so impossible to believe that I, too, may have a dozen or so demons within me?" He stares straight at Jack, gaze unwavering, with that godforsaken _smile_ curving up, "Please lower your expectations of me, Jack Merridew."

It is- it is a _command_ more a request.

(He'll kill you; you'll love every minute of it.)

Simon leans forward, standing on tip-toes to lightly brush his eyelashes against Jack's cheekbones. Neither of them so much as tremble during the millisecond-long contact.

"Be careful," Simon whispers, that perpetually odd smile upon his lips, "The Beast is close than you'd like to believe."

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End file.
